


I'll be good, I'll be good, I'll be a better man today (The blood on my hands scares me to death)

by Meatball42



Category: Leverage, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Former Bad Guys Anonymous, Gen, Light Angst, Long-Distance Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 05:55:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20204812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meatball42/pseuds/Meatball42
Summary: Every year, two people with a lot of regrets meet up to keep each other on track. This year, Natasha changes things up.





	I'll be good, I'll be good, I'll be a better man today (The blood on my hands scares me to death)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seinmit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seinmit/gifts).

> Inspired by [I'll Be Good, by Jaymes Young](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=scd-uNNxgrU).

Eliot tries to be honest with his team, so he tells them he’s taking a few days off in Las Vegas to meet up with an old contact.

North Las Vegas isn’t anything like the City of Lights, and Natasha’s not just a contact, but... well, his friends know better than to expect _ complete _ honesty.

Natasha tacks NLV to the end of a mission. No one will miss her, other than Clint, who texts, _ ‘Tell Spencer I said hi.’ _

The motel owner, Chuck, knows them by now. He flashes cigarette-stained teeth at Eliot while checking him in.

“That lovely lady of yers on her way?” he asks, polishing a thick pair of reading glasses with a cloth before peering behind Eliot.

“Hell if I know. She moves in mysterious ways.” Eliot winks.

Chuck’s raspy laugh follows him out of the office.

It’s the middle of the night when a heavy tread coming from the kitchenette wakes Eliot up; a courtesy, for someone as light-footed as Natasha. She’s drinking one of the beers he brought when he turns the light on.

“Hey handsome,” she says, and blows on the mouth of the bottle so it makes a hollow sound.

“Get over here,” he orders. Then he goes over to her anyway to wrap her in his arms.

“Been keeping your hands clean?” Eliot asks over a beer of his own.

They’ve settled at the little round table, their empties lining the windowsill that looks out over a scrubby patch of grass.

Natasha is much more interested in the patch of grass than it warrants. Eliot clinks his bottle against hers, gently.

She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

“Rough year?”

“You could say that.” Natasha takes a long drink. “The Hydra thing… there was a lot of damage. People I thought I could trust… and our guys who got left out in the cold when it all went down.”

“Ya didn’t call me in.”

She raises an eyebrow slightly, but her eyes are missing their usual teasing twinkle. “You were busy.”

Eliot takes his own long drink. “It’s done, though. Moreau’s put away, for good.”

“You alright?”

He chuckles and finishes off the bottle. “Ask me next year.”

They go for lunch at an Olive Garden. Natasha wants a seat with an eyeline to the front door, so Eliot watches the kitchen. All the better for him to sneer at the cooks who are occasionally visible.

“Tell me again why we can’t meet up someplace with real restaurants?”

“Like I say every year,” Natasha teases over her subpar salad, “it’s called being undercover. No one would look for either of us here.”

She’s wearing a frilly off-white dress with pastel blue and pink flowers. It looks like some old lady’s curtains.

She’s also keeping a closer eye on the front of the restaurant than she ought. “We waiting for something?”

Eliot subtly checks the knives and garotte he has on his person. You can never be too careful when you hang around the Black Widow.

“I invited someone else this year,” Natasha admits, chewing briefly on her lip. “An… old friend. He’s trying to stay out of the game. Thought he could use some help from our moral support club.”

“I’m not exactly out of the game, and you’re definitely not,” Eliot argues.

“Nobody’s perfect,” Natasha says, then waves to someone.

Eliot turns in his seat to look at the… homeless guy coming in?

No, wait. A closer look shows the man’s heavy but quiet tread, his perfect balance, the way his eyes expertly sweep the room, lingering on people and places Eliot himself had marked earlier.

It’s a very distinctive look.

The mercenary points at them with a gloved hand, and Natasha waves to the disgruntled host, who lets him by. 

Eliot looks closer. Steel-toed boots, for sure, an ankle holster, something heavy in each pants pocket, and a thick jacket—even in the Nevada heat—that could be concealing any number of weapons.

“Outta the game, really?” he mutters to Natasha.

She stands to invite the mercenary to the table.

“James, glad you could make it,” she says, leaning in to kiss the man’s cheek. He allows it, then sits down.

“This is Eliot, James. He’s one of the few contacts I have who I’d call trustworthy.”

Touched and surprised, Eliot smiles at her.

“Eliot, this is James. He’s an old friend.”

They shake hands. The new guy doesn’t try to crush Eliot’s hand, and Eliot replies in kind.

“You know what we’re here for, right?” Eliot asks bluntly.

Natasha’s friend stares at him with dead-looking eyes before nodding slightly. “You want to make up for the things you’ve done.”

“An’ you? Why are you here?”

Natasha gives Eliot a sharp look, which is interesting. It’s not like her to be protective. 

James is staring at his plate now, and doesn’t notice. “I have a lot to make up for,” he says quietly.

For all of the power obvious in James’s large frame, Eliot can’t see any of the rage or ambitious drive that he carried himself for years. James looks haunted, but mostly… tired.

Decision made, Eliot goes back to his crappy food. “Then you’ll fit right in with us.”


End file.
